Stan Breslinsky, hardware store proprietor (semi-retired), weapons enthusiast, and passionate lover of opera, shaved to the strains of Rigoletto. He hummed along. He took his time. He warbled and lingered until the last pretty notes of “La Donna E Mobile” came to a halt. Reverently, he put away his Sony tape recorder and descended the stairs for the kitchen. A spider as big as your thumb scooted down the bannister behind him.
Mary was at the Daily News, checking off her Wingo numbers. She played all the Zingos, Wingos, and Lottos. Each morning brought another chance to win a million. Her corner of the table by the stove was cluttered with all kinds of tickets, bingo circulars, crossword puzzles, coupons, and contests for prizes like a fun-filled trip to Atlantic City. Stan waited for her to be finished with the News and move on to the Post. Then he could have all his favorite funnies. The Times was lying there unopened (nobody read that thing but Carmela) and so was Newsday, the one they all read while waiting for the News or the Post to be free.
“Good morning, dear.” He kissed her on the cheek.
“They caught that fellow who was robbing all the 7-Elevens,” Mary said. “About time, too. He’s been busy as a widow at the fair.”
Stan reached into Mary’s apron pocket and switched the news channel of the radio over to WQXR, the classical station, then took his seat.
“Is today league day?” They bowled together on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, then again with the league every Friday.
“Sure.” She looked at him over the tops of her reading glasses. “You might want to put your bermudas on. News says it’s going to be a scorcher.”
“Claire’s bed is empty. She sleep out on the porch again all night?”
“Mmm.”
Stan shook his head. He sipped his juice and Mary handed him the News.
“You give it back before Carmela gets it. She’ll do the crossword out from under me.”
In marched Michaelaen, stark naked and transporting a truck in one downy arm.
“Back in your room and don’t come out without your shorts.” Mary reached for the scissors and began her coupon clipping. Michaelaen returned in a moment wearing nice plaid bathing trunks. He went out the screen door and into the yard to go check on his rabbits. Zinnie came in, her short blond curls spilling this way and that, and kissed her parents good morning, all the while busily at work with a nail file.
Mary put a glass of juice down in front of her. “No guns at the table, officer.”
Zinnie removed her pistol and stuck it on top of the refrigerator. She yawned and eyed the News in her father’s hands.
Michaelaen, satisfied that his rabbits had lived through the night (no small feat with all the raccoon about), returned and climbed onto Zinnie’s lap. She spread his green mint jelly onto a piece of white bread, folded it over, and pushed it into his little mouth. He cradled his truck and chewed.
Carmela entered crisply, her usual forboding self without her coffee, so no one greeted her yet. Neat as a pin, her black hair coiled in a knot at the nape of her neck, Carmela buried herself behind the Times. She swallowed a series of pills: lecithin, rose hips, brewer’s yeast, and silica, a round of B’s, a multi, an E, and an unscented garlic. (In the winter she included cod liver oil.) She sloshed this parade down with one long gulp of black coffee.
A sirening cop car raced down Eighty-fourth Avenue and up to the woods.
“Gee, that’s close,” said Mary. “I hate sirens.” She loved them, really, but she didn’t think she should.
“Anybody got ‘Dear Abby’?” asked Zinnie.
A resounding belch from the Times alerted them that Carmela was now awake, aware, and prepared for verbal exchange. “Jesus,” she swore at a picture of a rather mannish-looking female politician. “Who the hell does this friggin upstart think she is.”
“She needs a good slam bam in the thank you, ma’am,” Zinnie agreed. “Is Claire out on the porch? What does she think, she’s still in the Himalayas? You’d better tell her, Mom. She can’t sleep out there.”
“Why not?” Carmela arched one well-plucked brow. “I’m sure she’s only levitating.”
“Better,” Stan said, “she sleeps on the porch than over there in God knows where with God knows whom.”
“Hear that?” said Zinnie. “Another siren.”
“They both seem to have stopped by the monument,” Stan lifted an ear and strained to look outside.
“It’s probably crack smokers, again,” Mary decided.
“Too early in the morning for crack smokers,” Zinnie said knowingly. “And anyway, no one wastes sirens on crack smokers.” She took a bottle of clear nail polish out of her trousers pocket and repaired a chip. “What’s Claire doing wandering around the woods by herself? Mrs. Dixon says she’s always in the woods.”
“Taking pictures,” Mary sighed. “What else?”
“Well, tell her she can’t just sashay through the woods around here anymore. This neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.”
“You tell her,” Stan said. “She listens to you.”
“I already told her not to sleep in the hammock. So where is she? Sleeping in the hammock.”
“She does have the dog out there,” Mary pointed out.
“Hah,” Carmela snorted. “A lot of good he’ll do her. He’s off half the night looking for girls.”